Can't Let Go
by imafuckingparadox
Summary: Once her life is lost, he can't get her back. Or can he? Dramione Oneshot. Rated M for mature content.


**Can't Let Go**

**A/N: **A story idea that came to mind and that I just couldn't let go to waste... so here it is. It's a bit odd, I know, but I hope you give it a shot. It's set after Hogwarts. Draco and Hermione are married and have a son. The rest you can find out on your own.. Enjoy! :)

* * *

**Draco**

I hated the world. I really did.

At that moment, all that was coursing through my mind was, _Why me?_

I didn't even stop to think about the fact that _Hermione_ was the one who was dead.

I hated the world, not because she was dead, but because it had taken her life and hadn't taken mine as well.

If she was gone, I wanted to be gone, too.

How—I mean, what—no, _where_ was I supposed to go now?

Hermione was my love, my one true love. She was the only person I ever really cared for, who also really cared for me. And now she was gone.

* * *

It was my fault. I should've been able to save her. _Why _had we left our wands at home? _How _could we possibly have thought that we wouldn't need them?

If I had had my Goddamn wand, I could have stopped the car.

_We're going for a simple walk in the park,_ my wife had said. _For Henry to play in the sand. We'll be back in no time. There's no use for wands._

And I hadn't said anything. I didn't think it through.

I didn't process the fact that we're surrounded by Muggles, stupid, filthy fucking Muggles. Retards that drink and drive in broad daylight.

"I'LL KILL HIM! I'LL KILL THAT FUCKING BASTARD!" I yelled.

I didn't even care that Henry, my 3-year-old son was right beside me.

I was sitting on the curb, with my Hermione's head in my lap. One look at her neck had torn my heart apart.

The tires had flattened her throat. He ran over her, and kept going.

_I'll kill him. If I ever lay my eyes on him again, I'll kill him._

I don't know who he is. I don't know where he is now. I'll never know.

Henry's voice jerked me out of my thoughts.

"Daddy, why is Mummy sweeping on the fwoor? It's dirty!" he said, pushing his mother's hair away from her face.

I covered his eyes with my hand, not wanting him to see Hermione that way.

My son's childish innocence triggered my tears. As they quickly streamed down my face, I sniffed and whispered, "I love you, Henry. And Mum loves you, too."

And there I was. Draco Malfoy, widower at the age of 27.

* * *

**13 YEARS LATER**

**Henry**

I came downstairs this morning to find Dad fast asleep in the armchair, with his mouth hanging open and an unlit joint dangling off his lower lip.

Poor bloke was a bloody mess.

...

I can't clearly remember my mother's death.

But Dad hasn't moved on. Today will be the worst day of the year.

Today is the thirteenth anniversary of the accident.

I gently shake Dad awake. His beard is out of control and he reeks of alcohol. He belches, rubs his eyes and looks up at me slowly.

"Yeah, I know what day it is. And I know you know, too," I say.

He places his elbows on his eyes and buries his face in his hands.

Every year is the same.

* * *

The next day, I get home from school and find I'm home alone.

Funny, Dad's usually back from work by now.

He owns the café across the street from a huge business building downtown. Dad would handle the lunch rushes. Then, around 2, he'd come home.

And then I would get home at 3:30.

I sudden rush of worry hits me.

What if he's gone and done something stupid? He'd always been a little more reckless than average. Perhaps because he's still grieving.

13 years of grief. I can't imagine what that feels like.

I love my mom, I really do. But I can't really _miss_ her, can I?

Sometimes I'd kick myself for thinking such a thing, but it's the truth, innit? I don't know her. I barely remember her. I can't exactly miss someone whom I've never remembered meeting in my memories.

That accident has influenced my whole life, though.

A few months after Mum's death, we moved to Montreal. I don't know why. I guess Dad couldn't live in London anymore, knowing my mother's killer was around.

So we came to Canada. It's very different here. I still have my British accent, and I still use brit slang. Most everybody speaks both French and English. I've learnt French as well.

Not Dad, though. He only ever leaves the house to work for a few hours. I don't know how he manages being the boss.

He hasn't made any friends. He hasn't learnt any new languages or any part of the Canadian culture... if Canada even has a distinct culture.

I know I'm a wizard. A bloody good one, too. I've been told my mum was bright, and I got my magical talent from her.

I wish she could've taught me.

I wish I could've known her.

I wish Dad didn't hate magic, so I didn't have to teach _myself_.

After leaving England, I had no chance of going to Hogwarts. As far as I know, there aren't any wizarding schools in America.

Not that Dad would let me go, anyway.

I'm in the kitchen when I suddenly hear our front door open, and then slam shut.

"Don't ask," says Dad, as he plops himself in his armchair.

"Too bad, I will. Where've you been?"

"Who's the adult here, me or you?"

"Well, you're the adult, but I'm the more responsible one. And I have to try my best to make sure you don't get yourself bloody killed."

He turns to me with an angry look on his face.

Oh, I forgot. He gets extra-pissed off when death is mentioned in our house.

"Sorry," I say quickly. I'm really not apologetic at all; I just need to ask a favour. Best to do it when he's not thinking of chopping my bollocks off.

I heave a deep sigh and continue, "So, um, Dad... there's this girl at my school—"

"_Are you having sex?_ At _sixteen_ years old? Are you mad, ya tosser?"

"Fucking hell, Dad! I'm not having sex!"

I hate that he's so bipolar.

I calm myself and say, "Her birthday was yesterday. The party is tonight. Can I go?"

I expect him to immediately deny me. But he doesn't.

Instead, he turns to me slowly, moving his whole body around in his chair.

"You want to go to the party of a girl who was born on the anniversary of your mother's death?"

F_uck_ing _hell_.

My anger rises. His bipolar attitude pisses me off all the time, but today is different. I feel angrier than usual.

So, I decide to be a bratty little sarcastic kid.

"_Actually_, she was born _exactly_ on the day Mum died. She turned 13 yesterday."

For a second, he's silent, then—

There's a flash of light as a spell just narrowly misses my head.

We both stand there, panting as we watch each other.

Him, gripping his wand tightly in his right hand, and me, stunned at the fact that my dad just used magic for the first time in 13 years.

And the curse was aimed at me, to top it off.

"What have you become?" I ask, disgusted.

"Who are you to ask me what I've become?" he spits. "As if you've ever known me as any different than I am today. My life will never be the same after the loss of Hermione, and neither will yours.

"We're broken, Henry. Your mother was the glue that held us together and now she's gone. She's been gone for years and yet not a single part of me has even thought of moving on. At least I have the decency to think of her every day. And you? You decide to go out and celebrate the day of her death!"

He stops abruptly. And his eyes widen.

* * *

**Draco**

***flashback***

'_Hermione, please don't leave me. Please, stay alive! Someone, help!'_

_ I kept yelling, though I knew it was too late._

_ 'No! Hermione! Keep your eyes open for me, please! Please, wake up! Hermione! Hermione!'_

_ My world was crumbling. Everything around me faded away._

_ Hermione..._

_ Someone was coming. It was a woman._

_ I couldn't see her face._

_ She stood before me._

_ 'She's not gone. All you need to do is look for her,' said the strange woman. 'Remember: her favourite number is 267.'_

_ And then, just like that, she was gone._

* * *

**Henry**

"Dad?" I asks cautiously.

He's been staring off into the distance for a good 5 minutes.

"Are you alright? Look, Dad, I'm really sorr—"

"What's her name?" he asks abruptly.

"Wha—"

"The girl. With the party. That girl. _What's her name?"_

"Frankie. Why?"

"Where is she?"

"Dad, are you mental?"

"Answer me!" he bellows.

"She said she was going downtown with her friends before the actual party," I sputter in a rush.

He's really scaring me half to fucking death.

I hope he hasn't overdosed.

I shouldn't have sat back and watched him do those drugs.

_Fucking retard, _I kick myself mentally.

He's already heading for the door.

"Grab your phone and come with me," he orders.

Too scared to disobey, I climb into the car with him and we head downtown.

* * *

"Did you text her?"

"Yes," I say worriedly. "She said she's at the Starbucks on Saint-Catherine."

Dad narrows his eyes at the road ahead of him and steps harder on the gas pedal. Once he parks the car a few blocks down from Saint-Catherine, he sprints through the crowd towards the location of the Starbucks.

_Bloody hell._

I try my best to keep up.

My feet pound against the hard concrete.

It's almost in sync with the pounding in my chest.

_What does he plan on saying to her? "Hi, you were born the day my wife died, can I get your autograph?"_

I don't think so.

He slows down once he's in sight of the coffeehouse.

He stops for a moment, contemplating the building.

Then, when he's certain I've caught up with him, he bolts towards the door.

He pushes it open with such force that several people turn to find the source of the disturbance.

Dad stands there, panting, then rounds on me and says, "Where is she?"

And I see something that looks a lot like excitement and hope gleaming in his eyes.

I look around frantically and notice she's not there.

I spin around and, through the glass windows forming the front wall of the café, I see her shiny blonde hair walking across the street.

I point her out to my dad, telling him she's the blonde one.

He raises his eyebrows, then smiles and runs back out of the Starbucks.

We race through the crowds of people walking past the shops and boutiques of downtown Montreal.

Then we reach her.

"Frankie!" I yell.

I don't know why, but my worry has dissipated.

All I feel now is curiosity.

She turns to me, along with two of her friends standing on either side of her. She flashes me her blindingly white and charming smile.

"How are you?" she asks.

"My dad just wanted to meet you," I say.

She looks confused for a second, even creeped out, then she remembers her manners and says, "Hello, Mr Malfoy. Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise."

A pause.

"Tell me, Frankie," says Dad, "what's your favourite number?"

She exchanges a few looks with her friends then says, hesitantly,

"I'd have to say... 267."

Dad looks like he's about to cry. He puts his hands to his forehead and mumbles a few things under his breath.

He seems to be struggling with what to say next.

He actually seems to be struggling with the simple task of breathing properly.

"Miss Frankie... I—I hope you find someone who will love you unconditionally—forever."

She looks stunned for a moment, not having a clue what to answer to that.

"Um... thank you. I appreciate it."

She manages a smile that seems to be killing my father on the inside.

I then notice that she's holding a rather large book in her hand.

"That's a big book," I point out.

"Oh, you know... Just a bit of light reading," she says.

Dad chuckles softly and says, "Well, happy birthday to you, Frankie. We'd best be off. You can expect to see Henry again later tonight."

* * *

Dad puts his arm around my shoulders as we walk back to the car.

"So, Dad... was there a point to all of that? Or are you just mental?"

He laughs. Really, really laughs. And I find myself grinning.

"Henry, I've just got something I needed very badly."

"What's that?"

"Closure."

I ponder this for a moment, then say, "I still don't get it."

"I assure you, I'm not mental. Remember that we're wizards. Magic exists. And reincarnation is not a myth."

And then it clicks.

And I feel like crying as well.

"Not possible," I gasp.

"Oh, it's possible. It's true. Frankie is the reincarnate of your mother."

I'm completely, utterly and totally mindfucked.

A girl, 3 years younger than me, is my mother.

_My mother._

Well, not _really_ my mother. Just her soul.

It's still like talking to my mum, though.

She just looks different.

"And—and why are you suddenly so happy?"

I don't want to say it aloud, but if I'd re-found my true love and known perfectly well that I could never be with her, I would be eternally depressed.

"It's like I said, Henry. Closure. I can finally live my life knowing that your mother has been reborn. She isn't really dead. Yes, she will fall in love with someone else, but she will be happy. And that is what truly matters.

When you love someone, let them go, Henry. That is the most important saying out there. Because if they love you too, as long as they have the chance to, they will come back."


End file.
